


"You Played Yourself"

by KathrynJaneBAE



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Jaime Lannister is a Human Disaster™, Misunderstandings, Sharing a Room, slaps hood of this fic, they're in love but they don't know it, this baby can fit SO MANY TROPES
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-04-06 21:15:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19070821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KathrynJaneBAE/pseuds/KathrynJaneBAE
Summary: Would a gift be appropriate at all for a friend who agreed to be your made-up girlfriend over the weekend, so that your sister would get jealous?In which Jaime Lannister desperately needs a date to Cersei's wedding.





	1. You are cordially invited

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by ["Te la sei cercata"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19072114) by [Kinnabaris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kinnabaris/pseuds/Kinnabaris). 



> The fandom has been keeping me sane during The Great Game of Thrones Fiasco of 2019, so I figured I should join in the fun and try my hand at writing again.
> 
> [This prompt](https://primarybufferpanel.tumblr.com/post/185058170294/you-played-yourself-fake-dating-braime-au) had me typing away for the past few days, so I hope I'm doing it justice?  
> Anyway, enough rambling, enjoy!
> 
> Per i miei lettori italiani, potete trovare la traduzione della talentuosissima Kinnabaris [ QUI ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19072114/chapters/45306487)

 

 

The announcement should not have come as a surprise.

 

First, it had been Rhaegar Targaryen, the dashing son of father’s former business partner.

A much younger Jaime had begged and pleaded for Cersei to reconsider, to remember how they had always been two halves of a whole, each other’s mirror and each other’s shadow.

Why else would the Gods have chosen to have them enter this world together, if not for them to be bound to each other, two soulmates, eternally inseparable?

He had travelled South that summer, determined to find a purpose to a world he would not experience with Cersei, but even the warm, colourful shores of Dorne seemed to radiate the grey pallor of the Iron Islands when she was not around.

 

And when she had called him in the middle of the night, imploring him to come back to her, fighting against her own sobs while explaining that Rhaegar had eloped with Lyanna; Jaime had obeyed.

 

Suddenly, he could see the gold of Cersei’s hair in the dunes, the emerald of her eyes and the earthy sweetness of her perfume in the cedar forests, the crimson of her lips in every sunset. Her pain was bliss, and the bliss was guilty torment.

 

When Lyanna’s multimillionaire ex-fiancé stepped into the picture, and Robert and Cersei found comfort in each other’s sorrow, Jaime was once again cast aside. Yet, this time, he could not make himself leave. He had stayed by her side every time Robert had disappeared on one business trip or another, every time a tabloid had brought one of his many affairs to her attention, through any and all stolen moments they could carve out for themselves. And when Robert’s plane crashed, Jaime couldn’t say he felt sorry.

 

But now, as he twirled the invitation restlessly (a fancy square of artisanal, recycled paper that smelled like lavender and felt rough, too rough on his fingertips), a wave of nausea rushed through him. Sick, he felt sick.

 

“ _You are cordially invited to Cersei Lannister & Euron Greyjoy’s Wedding_”, it read. So impersonal and, worst of all, unexpected.

A June wedding.

 

Before he could even think through it, before even picking up a phone and reaching for an explanation, he reached for a pen instead.

 

“Jaime Lannister _joyfully accepts_ ”, he muttered bitterly, slashing a big check mark in the designed box, before bringing the pen down once more and checking the “plus one” option.

 

* * *

 

 

It had been almost a year since Cersei and Jaime had last spoken.

Almost a year since she had taunted him about his RSVP, asking whether his date would prefer beef, chicken or the vegetarian option.

“Vegetarian, she’s quite the health fanatic” he had replied, and hung up before Cersei could ask any more questions, and further call his bluff.

Months of failed attempts at dating had followed. Tyrion had played the wingman at a dozen different bars, to no avail.

Half the women he met were a painful reminder of his sister, the others were just too different from her, so he usually ended up drunk on his brother’s couch. Occasionally, their friend Bronn would join them and snore the night away on the armchair.

Life without Cersei meant having to confront some harsh truths, the most glaring one being: rich, handsome Jaime Lannister was really, really bad at dating.

Nor did he feel inclined to date any time soon. Not yet. Not while the wounds were still fresh.

 

So, he had started investing more and more of his time and energy into the one thing that still brought him some semblance of joy. For the past few years, he had been the proud owner and founder of The Lion Fighting School, a small fitness centre in the Westerlands with a decent social media following.

It had been a big deal, in the beginning. The Lannisters owned the Bank of Westeros, Tywin Lannister himself had been featured on more “Top 100 CEOs” lists than Jaime could count (all the more reason why he wouldn’t consider a career in banking, he figured). Straying from the family legacy had come with fatherly disappointment, and Cersei’s disapproval.

But now, his small gym had become a bit of a sanctuary, albeit a sweaty, downtown sanctuary at that.

In the ring or on the fencing strip, he could exhaust himself into forgetting. He could just be Jaime, be whole.

Even after the accident and the permanent nerve damage, which left him short of a right hand and the schedule short of a fencing instructor, there was still a sense of liberation every time he stepped through the door.

 

However, with only a couple of weeks to go before Cersei’s wedding, and the previously dormant sense of urgency now creeping up on him, Jaime doubted he could find any more solace within these walls than he could in the haunted ruins of Harrenhal (ghosts would come out at night and drag you straight to the Seven Hells, Tyrion had told him when they were children, a lifetime ago).

 

Nevertheless, he pulled into his reserved parking space, deciding to take a few minutes to himself, leaning back against the headrest and taking a few deep, calming breaths, car windows lightly cracked as to let some of the May breeze in.

His reflection stared back at him from the rearview mirror. A tired man of almost forty, his beard a little too scruffy, his cheeks a little too hollow, his eyes a little too spent. Where once he saw Cersei, he was now forced to see himself.

 

He closed his eyes, trying to keep any and all Cersei-related thoughts out of his mind, desperately trying to focus on the city around him, the thuds and yells from the training rooms, the car pulling up besides his, and the gentle rap of knuckles against his window.

 

“Jaime?”


	2. What is this, the Middle Ages?

When Brienne Tarth met Jaime Lannister, one thing was certain: they did not like each other.

 

When word had spread that former fencing champion Jaime Lannister had lost the use of his fighting hand, and was now looking for someone who could train him to fight left-handed, Sansa had immediately sent a glowing letter of recommendation for her. After all, she had been training her best friend’s little sister for a while now, to pretty astonishing results, and Sansa knew just how badly Brienne wanted to open her own fencing school one day.

Working under someone like Jaime Lannister would definitely be a step in the right direction.

 

“You’ll always have a home here in Winterfell” Sansa had said, hugging her tightly through teary eyes, while Arya busied herself loading Brienne’s things into the boot. Brienne suspected the sniffling sound she had heard had not come from her suitcase after all.

 

So, with a hint of reluctance, she had left Winterfell and travelled west.

 

She had been in communication with Bronn, Jaime’s former private instructor, who had set up a practice session en lieu of an interview, and had warned her about just how demanding her (hopefully) new employer could be.

To be fair, he had said something along the lines of “I love the guy, but if I hear one more complaint, I just might bloody kill him”. After spending about fifteen minutes with Bronn on the way to the training rooms, she reckoned he had only been half joking.

 

“So, you’re Bronn’s replacement, now that he wants to get rid of me” Jaime had said, too busy rummaging through his locker to actually turn around to face her. There was something pragmatic yet hasty in his tone. According to Bronn, none of the people he had interviewed before her had really stuck around much, so Brienne had figured he just might have wanted to get this practice round over and done with.

 

“Brienne” Jaime had turned around at her introduction, extending a hand for her to shake, “My name is Brienne”; she repeated herself, momentarily taken aback.

 

As warm and sticky as the Westerlands were, The Lion Fighting School must have been the stickiest and warmest place yet. She could feel her short hair limply falling over her forehead, sweaty and lifeless, and her face had certainly turned pink by now. Even her posture, now slightly slouching, suggested wilting.

Yet, Jaime Lannister’s anatomy seemed unaware of the unflattering weather. Nothing in his dirty-blond hair or chiseled features suggested distress, and it was only after he had finally looked up at her (yes, _looked up_. He was tall, and she felt even more painfully aware than usual of her imposing stature), that Brienne instinctively straightened up, making sure to steady her grip and hide her discomfort.

 

“Shall we begin?” he smirked, a smirk she had seen a thousand times before. Again and again, she had had to prove herself to men who had underestimated her. Jaime Lannister would be no different.

 

They sparred, Brienne intending to ease him back into combat, Jaime clearly trying to get a rise out of her. Her original intentions were to examine his fighting style and mostly adapt, staying on the defensive until she could properly gauge what exactly she would be working with.

Jaime, while rendered more clumsy and predictable by having to use his non-dominant hand, was certainly a more than worthy opponent.

“Don’t frown. It lets me know _exactly_ when you’re about to attack” he reprimanded her, after avoiding one of her blows. Grunting, Brienne went back to the offense, but his sword met hers just as swiftly, “yelling isn’t too subtle, either”.

As aware as she was of being younger and less experienced than Jaime, Brienne couldn’t believe how quickly he had gotten her worked up, to the point of making such obvious beginner’s mistakes.

Left, right, and left again; Jaime’s sword was there to block her every move, until he had her backing up, only inches from the wall.

“A pity. And here I thought you’d solved my predicament,” there it was again, that smirk, “Is this really the best you can do, _wench_?”

Before Brienne had even time to think it through, a well-placed kick to his ankles had Jaime falling flat on his back. She must have been the one to do it, because next thing she had known, she had been towering over him, her own sparring sword to his throat, and his a few feet away.

* * *

 

 “He called you a _wench_? What is this, the middle ages?” Sansa had exclaimed, her voice crackling through the laptop monitor, while Brienne kept chopping up vegetables for dinner in between sips of Chardonnay.

“He did” she shrugged “And I disarmed him for it. A few times, actually, he insisted on a rematch” Once Brienne had determined that his whole strategy had been baiting her into misstepping; he had lost all of his advantage.

Sure, she had not been too proud of kicking him, or letting her emotions take the best of her to begin with, but she had managed to wipe that look off his infuriatingly symmetrical face. And, she had gotten a job out of it, too, because Jaime Lannister had hired her on the spot.

 

* * *

 

A few months into working for Jaime Lannister, Brienne could not say they exactly disliked each other. Not really.

Sure, in his attempts to overcompensate for his sense of inadequacy, what with having to take lessons from someone much younger and inexperienced than he was and whatever else that seemed to be going on in his personal life (Brienne had not dared ask, but she had noticed how red his eyes could get on occasions), Jaime could be a tad… overwhelming.

Brienne could not say that his throwaway comments had not hurt her at times. Whether he had intended it as a compliment on her physical strength, she had never particularly appreciated being called a “beast”, nor the reminder of a femininity she had never possessed.

But Jaime had stopped relying solely on insults as a combat strategy whilst his confidence in his left hand increased, and he could almost be… nice, at times.

The knowledge that she could knock him on his arse whenever she fancied must have played a part in it, she reckoned, but he seemed to have come to respect her, at least to the bare minimum of human decency.

 

She had dreaded the first few training sessions together, but she had soon grown to appreciate her time on the job. For the most part, she was able to set up personal training sessions (young Pod had become one of her favourite students fairly quickly. He reminded her of herself, in a way, and she was extremely proud of the confidence he had developed as of late). Jaime kept to himself whenever he was not training with her, mostly observing and working in his office. A few times, Brienne had suspected he had been hungover, but she had known better than to ask.

It had been a frequent subject of conversation with Sansa, however, who had taken to mostly listening and observing with a knowing smile while Brienne recounted her day as she slowly unpacked the moving boxes stacked in her new apartment.

 

Then, as she locked her car on a chilly January morning, ready to start her day, she had found out exactly why Jaime had been getting thinner, and snappier, and just plain sad.

 

“I shouldn’t even go. She’ll win, as she always does, but what do I care at this point? It would be hard enough to watch the woman I love marry someone else, but it’s _Cersei_ , Tyrion…” Jaime and his brother were sitting on a bench right outside the Fighting School’s entrance; he clearly had forgotten she was supposed to open the doors that morning, and had expected to find absolute 5A.M. solitude.

 

When he caught sight of her, his voice trailed off, and his eyes went wide. When Brienne finally remembered where she had heard the name “Cersei” before, she understood why.

 

“And _this_ is why we don’t have private conversations in very public parking lots, brother. Drink your coffee”, she had heard Tyrion mutter.

 

Without a word, but with clammy, frozen fingers, she had busied herself with the locks, and had bee-lined for the locker rooms, feeling a strange, unfamiliar thumping right in her throat. She forced herself to breathe, slowly and steadily, until the lump that she supposed was her heartbeat had, at the very least, descended to her belly.

He had to fire her after something like that, right? And should that be the case, it wasn’t like Brienne had nowhere to go, really. Sansa and Arya would be happy to have her back, or she could figure out a way of renting a space in a local park to keep on training the students who would be willing to continue their lessons with her.

Either way, she would get through it.

 

She had expected Jaime to call her into his office.

To be completely honest, she had agonised about this inevitable meeting for what felt like the longest shift of her life.

“Have a seat, please”, his tone was carefully flat, not agitated but not exactly polite, either.

“Brienne, what you heard this morning… I trust you haven’t told anyone?” he inhaled, sharply. While his eyes appeared calm, Brienne noticed he hadn’t been able to let go of his breath until she shook her head.

“Good, good. I would be grateful if we could keep it that way. Incest hardly makes for good publicity,” he gave a bitter chuckle as he leaned back onto his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose as if he himself were in disbelief at his own words “Of course, we don’t have to continue our sessions if you feel uncomfortable, but please consider staying.”

He looked so sincere, that her eyes went wide with surprise, and she couldn’t help but sputter an incredulous “…Excuse me?”

“You’re a good teacher, Brienne. I mean, look at Pod. He could barely figure out which end he should be holding a foil from. He’s entering his first competition this weekend, thanks to you. Don’t leave on account of my indiscretion.”

Somehow, the most shocking part of this whole conversation was being paid a compliment by him. Yet, when she had finally managed to remember how to speak, only three words came out.

“I’m not fired?”

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Now, I know I don’t have a reputation as a smart man, but even I know better than to give the holder of my deepest, darkest secret a reason to resent me.”

 

Oh. It really had been too much to hope that Jaime would actually mean any compliment he had paid her. Him thinking that she could stoop so low as to gossip or retaliate, though? That had stung.

 

He must have realised his mistake, however, because he hastily added: “I meant what I said, too. You are a really good teacher. It’d be a shame to go back to Bronn. He scares a lot of our students, wonder why…” he trailed off, clearly attempting to relieve the tension.

 

“Now, can I count on you?” he had finally asked, after the briefest, most intense silence.

 

“See you tomorrow, Mr. Lannister"

She had gotten up and made for the door, but turned around, more tentative than she would have liked to be.

He nodded.

"Jaime," he said, "you can call me Jaime."

She swallowed, hard, trying not to linger on his gaze for too long.

 

* * *

 

Spring had come, and Brienne figured she and Jaime had somehow become friends.

Brienne had taken to buying two cups of coffee every morning she and Jaime worked together. It would do absolutely no good to work with a sleepy, migraine-ridden boss. One of those days, she would have to have a talk with Tyrion about just how much of an alcohol intake was appropriate for people their age.

And there had been that time Tormund, a particularly persistent gym-goer, had not really taken the hint that his advances were not welcome, and Jaime had looked out for her and unceremoniously thrown him out. They had laughed together a few days later, when he had sent her an email apology in the form of LOLcatz ("Illiterate cats haven't been funny since… they've never been funny" Jaime had commented, almost offended).

They had never touched the subject of his sister again, but as long as they were sharing coffees, lunches and anecdotes, Jaime's mind had been occupied by more than brooding thoughts.

Hence why Brienne had started getting concerned when, right around the end of May, Jaime had started hiding out in his office again, never really lingering too long after their sessions (when he even showed up at all).

She had told Sansa about it all (minus, of course, the part where her boss was desperately in love with his twin sister. She had made a promise, and she intended to keep it), but she had seemed more interested as to why a mere employee would even care that much, and Brienne had not appreciated the implications of that statement. As Jaime's personal trainer, it was her duty to make sure he led a healthy lifestyle, both physically and mentally, nothing more.

As of late, it had not escaped Brienne's notice that Jaime had once again gotten thinner, that it had probably been days since he last shaved. Combined with his avoidance and the fact that he seemed to be sleeping in his car at 1P.M. on a hot afternoon, Brienne could no longer hide her concern.

"Jaime?"

She called, lightly tapping the window.

He had bolted up, glassy-eyed and confused, until he registered her face with a sleepy groan.

"Is everything alright?" She asked, already helping him up and out the car as she did so.

"Can't a man take a nap in his car if he pleases?" He had protested, but even then, he had not seemed too convinced.

"It's not the best idea, no. Why don't you take a shower and cool down? You can tell me what's wrong once I know you're not getting heat stroke" she had been firm and to the point, yet Jaime had looked at her in wonder for a while, before chuckling to himself.

"It's not funny," she had frowned, but Jaime had flashed her one of his stupid grins, and her voice had faltered.

"I'm fine, Brienne" he had tried reassuring her "And you're right. It's not funny," the way he said it, she could practically see his thoughts forming into a plan she was unaware of.

"It's bloody brilliant."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thanks for reading so far!
> 
> It is technically Sunday if you post around midnight, in good (impatient) night-owl fashion, right? (a.k.a. I know nothing of healthy sleep cycles and appropriate posting schedules, but better too early than too late)
> 
> Until next week!


	3. The Contract

A very damp-haired, newly hydrated Jaime was now standing near the phone charging stations, handsomely leaning against the side of one of the cubbies.

His mood had drastically improved in the span of a shower and, really, he could not quite figure out why he had not thought of this before.

Now, as Brienne was doing everything in her power to ignore his smugness, the problem lied in how to broach the subject to her.

He must have inadvertently flashed his sheepish grin, the one that had gotten him out of trouble more than once, because Brienne was now sighing.

“What do you want, Lannister?”

She always addressed him by his last name whenever she got fed up with his teasing, or whenever she had been feeling playful herself. This time, it seemed to be a bit of both.

Jaime found it endearing, really.

“Why do you always assume the worst of me, Tarth?” he retorted, jokingly, smiling when Brienne put her hands on her hips, quirking an eyebrow as if to say “Out with it”.

 

“Alright, I need a favour,” he admitted, “Cersei’s getting married in less than two weeks.”

Gods, he had not spoken those words in so long! It was as if, by avoiding the subject, Jaime had thought he could somehow have willed the event not to be real.

“I thought Tyrion was in charge of the Self-Pity Pub Crawls?” she quipped, looking half-horrified at the words that had actually just escaped her mouth, half proud.

Jaime reckoned he had deserved that. After all, it was he who had ignored her for days, now.

She might not have been worried about him, per se (it somehow seemed too much to hope for), but he could certainly see why she would be ticked off.

“Tyrion will be going. So will I.” he shuffled his feet nervously, feeling increasingly sillier for it. It was _Brienne_ he was talking to. She had never judged him before or, if she had, it had never affected their professional relationship, nor their friendship and mutual respect. Jaime had trusted her in the past; he would just have to trust her once again.

“Problem is, I kind of told her I’d be bringing a date.” He started, trying to tiptoe around the subject, “That was a lie.”

He gave Brienne a meaningful look, hoping she would catch on, but he had a feeling she was deliberately waiting for him to get it all out in the open.

“I need a date for my sister’s wedding.”

He admitted, anxiously running a hand through his hair.

Brienne’s eyes went wide in alarm.

“Oh, no. I… I can’t!” she started, and Jaime’s heart sank.

“Please.” He let his façade drop, “You’re the only one, besides my brother, who knows about… our past.” He heard his voice drop to almost a whisper on those words, not quite yet willing to speak them and make them truth. _Past_ was so dry, so final.

“It wouldn’t be a _real_ date. I just need to break this cycle, to show Cersei I’ve moved on and I’m doing fine without her, and…” as Brienne looked at him with an expression he could not decipher, a mixture of caution and disbelief, a horrible notion struck him. Why he found it horrible, he would not and could not say. “You wouldn’t have to worry, if you’re seeing someone I can explain the situation to them… incidentally, are you? Seeing someone, I mean?” He asked, before he could stop himself.

“Of course not.” She replied, hastily. Jaime thought he had seen her blushing, however briefly, “And I knew you were only asking me to _pretend_ we’re dating.”

She made a vague hand gesture, hovering from her face and down to her body, almost dejectedly. Jaime frowned.

“Why do you think I said no? How am I supposed to lie to your entire family for a whole weekend?”

 

“You wouldn’t be, really. Tyrion will be playing along. My parents are dead. It’s only Cersei and her soon-to-be husband we would …” he had started explaining, but something caught his attention. “Wait a minute. Brienne Tarth, are you saying you’d actually go out with me, if I asked?” He teased. Of course she would not. Not after finding out about him and Cersei, he knew that.

But lately, any excuse had been good for bantering, and Brienne had gone pink under that flustered scowl she was giving him. His job had been done.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Dating on the job? Not interested.”

“I see… what do you say I make it more interesting, then?” by now, he had Brienne’s attention, “You know that empty slot on the schedule, the one that used to be reserved for my group classes? It’s yours-”

“If I go on a date with my boss. Classy, Lannister.” She cut him off, sarcastically.

“A fake date,” he corrected her, “With a friend.”

 

Brienne looked very conflicted for a few, long moments, before finally groaning in defeat.

 

“Fine,” she sighed, “Just don’t expect me to call you _sweetheart_ , or _snookums_ , or…”

“You got it, _darling_!” he teased.

“Don’t.” she warned, trying so very hard not to smile.

“You never said _I_ wasn’t allowed to use pet names, _pumpkin_ ,” Jaime pointed out, shrugging.

“Jaime Lannister, you’re a child. An actual twelve-year-old.”

“Now you’re just hurting my feelings, _sweetling_ …”

“ _Go!”_ she laughed, playfully shoving him away, in fake outrage. He obliged, grinning ear-to-ear as he walked to his office. His hand was already on the door handle, when he turned around.

“Brienne?” he called “See you tonight after closing?”

She seemed confused, but agreed.

 

* * *

 

 

Brienne smelled like lilacs.

Her college roommate (Margot or Mallory… was it Margaery?) had gone on an artisanal soap-making frenzy during their second semester, and Brienne had been the first supporter of her business. She still was to this day, hence why she smelled like lilacs.

Jaime had noticed once before, and gotten this anecdote out of her.

He was not quite sure as to why that random piece of information had stuck around but, as he walked home, he had debated whether he should have risked the wrath of his neighbours and picked a few of the purple flowers that were hanging over their fence and into his own (much more neglected) garden. As a thank you for her kindness, of course.

 

They had agreed on meeting at a local bar an hour after leaving work, as to give them both some time to freshen up, so Jaime rushed through getting ready. He decided against the flowers. It had been a silly idea, really. Brienne liked swords, and hiking, and reading. He had caught her completely absorbed in romance novels a few times during lunch breaks, often just forgetting about the forkful of food she had been holding up mere inches from her face. The contrast with her usual no-nonsense demeanor had surprised him at first, but she had explained how historical fiction and romances had helped her find her love for fencing, as well as being the catalyst for her friendship with Sansa.

Jaime was not going to present her with a few stolen lilacs. He would at least go through the effort of actually _buying_ her flowers, if that were an appropriate thank you, but he figured he would do some poking around and decide on a better gift at a later time. Would a gift be appropriate at all for a friend who agreed to be your made-up girlfriend over the weekend, so that your sister would get jealous? He had no way to be sure.

 

Once he had finally managed to make a decision on what to bring or not to bring, and what to wear (this would be the first time they met outside of work, he would not show up wearing one of those novelty t-shirts Tyrion had gotten him as a joke, that would just be disrespectful), he was at least ten minutes late, and Brienne was already waiting for him outside the bar, wearing a flowy teal shirt and an anxious expression.

Jaime had never seen her out of gym clothes.

For a brief moment, all he could do was pause and notice just how blue her eyes were. How had he missed that before?

 

“Good, you’re here. I thought-“

“That I’d leave you here alone, unchaperoned in this trove of treachery and sin?” He joked, but deep down he hoped she had not really thought he had bailed on her.

“I can defend myself, thank you very much. Do I need to knock you down again and show you?” Jaime felt himself smile, and put his hands up in surrender.

“I have learned my lesson the first time,” he conceded, before cocking his head towards the door, “Shall we try and get a booth?”

 

They had agreed they should have a proper sit-down and get their stories straight. Cersei was not easily fooled; any and all slip-ups would tip her off immediately.

 

They started going over the important details such as family history, friendships and birthdays; as well as the seemingly unimportant ones like favourite foods and pet peeves.

 

By the time they had gotten their drink and food orders, they had already moved on to made-up couple scenarios, and decided one of their favourite activities was snacking on incredibly unhealthy food while binge-watching cooking shows.

Jaime considered whether he should actually invite Brienne over sometime. _Westeros’ Top Chefs_ was about to add a new season, and heckling the home cooks from his couch would certainly be more fun if she were around.

 

“So, how long have we been dating?” Brienne asked, readily taking notes on a small pad she had brought with her.

“I RSVP’d in August, so… let’s make it a year, even. Where did I take you on our first date?”

“Nothing too fancy, we checked out the Spring Festival and ate fair food,” Brienne suggested, after a moment of thoughtfulness.

“No, that won’t work, I told Cersei you’re a vegetarian…” Jaime remembered, mentally kicking himself.

“Then it wasn’t a great date, but I decided to give you a second chance.”

“Hey! I don’t take women on bad dates!” He protested, jokingly. Truth be told, Jaime had not taken anybody on any date, ever. It had always been him and Cersei, and they could hardly make their affair public. Yet, it was not a lie, either, so he decided to stick with it. “I would take you somewhere nicer. Dinner, at least” he mumbled, suddenly unable to look at her, deciding to one-handedly tear up a paper napkin instead.

“Unless you really wanted to go to the fun fair, of course.”

When he looked up, Brienne seemed wary. Jaime wondered if he had offended her in any way, so he cleared his throat and changed the subject.

 

“We can decide later. In the meantime, we should make sure we are on the same page. I wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable so, if you have any rules besides pet names…” he offered. Brienne had come prepared.

 

“I don’t think we should… We should not engage in excessive PDA,” she blurted out, and this time it was her turn to stare at the table.

Jaime had not thought about that. What _would_ the pretense of a relationship with Brienne entail, as far as physicality went? Oddly enough, he could now think of nothing else.

“Define excessive?”

“I just…” Jaime noticed just how tightly she had been gripping her notepad, and instinctively reached out, soothingly circling his thumb over the back of her hand. It was not too long before he felt the tension leave her and her fingers somewhat unclench.

“If I’m going to kiss someone, I want it to be real.” she explained, her eyes determined, but her voice barely disguising a note of unsteadiness.

Jaime could not help but admire her courage in the face of vulnerability. Where he would have made self-deprecating joke after self-deprecating joke (with a healthy dose of sarcasm at the other’s expense), Brienne had been able to admit something so important to her. If anything, Jaime had always felt the same way about it.

“Of course.” He reassured her, unaware of the smile that had crept up at the corners of his mouth, or that he had indeed held on to her hand for just a little too long, until she reciprocated the gesture with a gentle squeeze.

“Thank you.”

They fell silent after that, not for too long, not uncomfortably.

There was something grounding in being able to be so open with someone. Staggeringly, Jaime had found himself not only able to talk freely, but willing to listen in return.

 

“This should be our first date,” he blurted out. Brienne looked horrified.

“I mean, this is the story we could tell. We met in this bar, I bought you a drink, and here we are. One year later, we’re spending our anniversary where it all began. What do you say?” he offered, trying not to think too much of the rejection on her face.

“I say we should take a picture and commemorate the event.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been ~a week, my dudes.   
> In spite of the turmoil, I'm luckily still on schedule with this story, so there's that?
> 
> Thank you all for the kind comments and kudos, I see them all and they brighten my day, even if I can't always respond <3


	4. Crazy Rich Lannisters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a bit of a late update, had to rush into work today (dammit, real life!).  
> Anyway, the self-projection in this chapter is real. Enjoy!

Brienne had never felt comfortable in a dress.

 

Over the years, countless friends and family members had taken on the dolorous task of playing the personal stylist, much to her annoyance.

There had been her stepmother, may the Seven bless her, who had insisted on finding her a gown to attend hers and her father’s wedding.

Brienne had been eight then, and already standing a whole head taller than she. They had had to shop in the women’s section of the store, and she had promised a kicking and screaming Brienne that she would eventually be filling out the bust, in a few years.

She never fully did, but the dress had been indecently short by the time she had started middle school, anyway.

For years after that, Brienne had sworn off any and all typically feminine garbs, content with sporty clothes, tunics and the occasional pair of jeans. It might not have gained her the title of most fashionable or most popular among her peers, but they fit, and were extremely good to hide in.

Then, as Brienne had gone off to college, it had been well meaning Margaery, so intent to find her a boyfriend after Brienne’s misplaced crush on Renly (he had recently moved in with Margaery’s brother, she had recently found out).

She had turned her into a charity project of her very own, unrelenting in spite of her protests.

She had dragged her from boutique to boutique, exhausting her into trying on any dress, skirt and romper that would fit, and talked her into buying outfits that she would only wear once in her company, then banish to the depths of her closet or donate.

It was a gesture born out of love, Brienne knew. But she had so wished that Margaery would just _see_ her.

No dress had quite fit right, none ever would.

Truth was, Brienne was just too tall. Too flat chested. Too broad-shouldered.

Her hips would always be too wide, her calves too thick.

Brienne would always just be _too much_.

She had come to terms with her lack of femininity a long time ago. She might never be graceful, or lithe, or pretty.

But she could be strong, and skillful, and that had been enough. It would have to be enough.

To pretend otherwise, in spite of best intentions, had only been cruel.

Besides, Brienne figured that getting a date was not worth compromising her identity.

 

Yet, as she walked through the ornate halls of The Red Keep Hotel, surrounded by some of the best dressed, most elite patrons, she had almost been glad that Sansa had talked her into packing a few dresses, “just in case”.

 

They had arrived in King’s Landing the previous night, Jaime cursing himself for only booking their flight at the last minute, effectively getting them stuck (quite literally) in the narrow economy seats, with no legroom to speak of.

Nevertheless, he had managed to fall asleep anyway, knees knocking against Brienne’s as he huddled up next to her, lips lightly parted and his temple resting on her shoulder.

Brienne had not dared move.

 

When the taxi had taken them to the hotel, it had become clear that Jaime, who had warned her about his family’s extravagance, must have thought the words _extravagant_ and _filthy rich_ interchangeable.

 

The Red Keep towered over the capital from its highest hill, overlooking the famous Blackwater Bay and offering the best panoramic view of the city.

Each and every one of its corridors, halls and rooms was elegantly decorated with mosaics, tapestries, and art pieces so eclectic that Brienne had the impression of stepping into a museum.

She had been shocked upon finding out that the entire complex had been closed to the public and reserved for the wedding guests, as Cersei herself owned the hotel, courtesy of her late husband, Robert Baratheon.

 

Even the suite they had been escorted to had been bigger than her own apartment.

A small mercy, really, given how nervous she had been at the prospect of sharing a room with Jaime.

He had been a perfect gentleman (something Brienne was certainly not used to), and insisted on sleeping on the sofa. Yet, even with the world’s coziest king-sized bed all to herself, Brienne could not get to sleep, unpleasant thoughts keeping her stirring under the blankets.

 

Over the past week, Sansa’s words had been nagging at a part of herself she had not wanted to acknowledge.

_“You can’t just pretend to be his girlfriend over the weekend, and go back to business on Monday,”_ she had said _, “You actually_ like _Jaime!”_

 

Brienne had denied it over and over, but those words had forced her to see subtleties in her behaviour that she had not wanted to take note of, such as the small lilt in her breathing when Jaime smiled, the barely noticeable lingering whenever they parted, and the warmth she felt whenever he accidentally brushed up against her.

Sometimes, she could have almost sworn that he had felt it, too, but reality would set back in real quick, and Brienne would wish that Sansa had never brought attention to those feelings.

 

“Brienne, if you’re not going to sleep, we should switch places.”

Jaime had sat up on the sofa, his voice hoarse with sleep. He must have heard the rustling of the sheets as she had tossed and turned for the hundredth time.

“I told you, you can have –“

“I wasn’t being serious. What’s wrong?” he asked, running a hand through his hair.

She could not bring herself to say. She would not.

He would have to face the happy couple in the morning, and see the love of his life married to someone else in less than two days.

She could not burden him with her feelings, especially given the reasonable doubt that it could all be a Sansa-induced, fleeting infatuation.

“Nothing. Sorry I woke you.”

Jaime stared at her for a moment, pondering.

“To be honest, I couldn’t sleep either,” he admitted.

“Want to talk about it?” Brienne offered, sitting cross-legged, hugging the duvet to her chest.

“Not really,” Jaime sighed, and Brienne knew not to press the subject, “I do want to order room service and watch the cheesiest movie we can find on pay-per-view, though.” He suggested, changing the subject.

“You’re on”, she grinned, handing him the remote as she joined him on the couch.

They spent the rest of the night poking fun at some high-budget action movie that clearly took itself too seriously, between bites of cheesecake and sips of coffee.

 

She did not know when she had fallen asleep, only that she had woken up on the sofa, under a blanket that had not been there the night before.

 

The gratitude she had felt for Sansa’s insistence that Brienne would wear a dress over the weekend had vanished the moment she had met Cersei Lannister.

 

She had seen pictures of her before; she and Jaime had gone through family photos for her to familiarise herself with whom she was about to be meeting.

Now that the woman was standing before her, gorgeous in her pastel green sundress, Brienne could see that no picture could ever do her justice.

Not unlike Jaime, her beauty seemed impervious to such things as wind or heat.

Her short golden hair, mussed by the breeze, perfectly framed her sharp features. The sun had given her the slightest tinge of pink on her cheeks.

 

Under her scrutinising gaze, Brienne had felt more inadequate than ever, even if for a moment only.

The dusty pink dress Sansa had picked out for her was now feeling shorter than ever, and she subconsciously started tugging at its hem.

Jaime put an encouraging hand at the small of her back, a gentle reminder of his presence as they made their introductions.

 

“I’ve heard so much about you!” Cersei had smiled, the sweetness in her voice a stark contrast with the grip she had on Brienne’s hand.

Brienne knew exactly how much Cersei had learned about her.

 

Namely, she had been there when Tyrion had waltzed in the day after she and Jaime had taken their very first photo together, asking why he had had to hear it from their sister that Jaime had posted a picture with “some blonde whore”, her words. Jaime had not been amused.

 

Cersei had then proceeded towards Jaime, holding him tightly and planting what looked like an innocent kiss on his cheek. He stood stiffly for a moment, his expression unreadable, before briefly reciprocating the hug.

His right hand, barely salvaged after his accident but badly scarred and trembling, had brushed against her for the briefest moment, before Cersei retreated and turned away, leading them to their table.

Brienne had not failed to notice her contempt, nor the hurt on Jaime’s face, and had immediately, unthinkingly reached out for his right hand, holding it gently as they followed.

He inhaled, more sharply than usual, before allowing a small, tense smile to appear on his lips, for the first time since they had left their hotel room. If that were the way to ground him, Brienne had no intention of letting go.

 

They were introduced to her fiancé, Euron Greyjoy, owner of a fleet of cargo ships. By the way he had seemed more interested in the brunch buffet, Brienne gathered he must be the only person at the table completely unaware of the tension between the two Lannisters.

So unaware, in fact, that he had started boasting about future plans, including renovations on their villa, some incredibly lavish honeymoon in Pentos, and children.

As he went on, between bites of lobster, Brienne had felt Jaime’s arm stiffen around her waist, almost clinging for a lifeline.

“Weren’t we just talking about taking a vacation in Pentos a few days ago?” Brienne improvised. Not technically a lie, given that Pod had just moved on to the semifinals and was about to travel to Pentos for the match. They had planned on going to show their support, and discussing Pod would be a much less tender subject than Cersei’s plans for the future.

 

“Ah, the happy couples!”

Tyrion had joined them, carrying the most outrageous glass of mimosa Brienne had ever seen. Brienne was so happy for the distraction she could have hugged him. Jaime seemed to share the sentiment.

“What did I tell you? I’ve never seen our brother so happy!” there was a twitch in Cersei’s upper lip at Tyrion’s words, “All thanks to Brienne.” He added, encouragingly. For a moment, he had almost sounded sincere.

“Well, she certainly is…” Cersei trailed off. It might have sounded polite or uncertain to anyone else, but Brienne had the impression she was deliberately looking for a hurtful enough descriptor. Jaime would not let her finish, though.

 

“How was your flight, Tyrion?” he had cut in, briskly, and Brienne could swear he had glared at his sister, if imperceptibly.

The brothers immersed themselves in chitchat, sporadically joined by Euron, who was getting more and more confused by the minute.

 

Under Cersei’s inquisitive, calculating stare, Brienne was starting to feel increasingly uncomfortable. Could she possibly know? Or was this nothing more than a territorial stance?

 

“Brienne, I trust you’ll be at my bachelorette party tomorrow night?” She asked, ever so sweetly, and Brienne mouthed an ever so slight “oh”.

“After all, Jaime tells me things are pretty serious between the two of you. How could I not invite my sister?”

 

She instinctively shot a look at Jaime, partly for guidance, partly because of the utter surprise at those words. They had never agreed on this level of seriousness for their made-up relationship, although she reckoned it would make sense for two people who had supposedly been dating for a year to be considering the next step. Had they actually been dating, they would at least have talked about it, as a possibility for the future. But they were not, and the thought had therefore never crossed her mind.

 

He seemed just as shocked, but nodded.


	5. Dot after dot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, yes, the pining.

It was three in the morning.

Three in the morning, and Jaime Lannister was stuffing a handkerchief up his bloody nostril, sitting on the grimy pavement somewhere in Flea Bottom, joined by a sympathetic Tyrion.

“Now, will you finally admit I’m right?” he asked, his annoyance barely concealing a note of satisfaction. Jaime groaned.

 

It had all started a few hours before, when he had arrived to the bar with Tyrion.

 

Somehow, much in the way Brienne had been roped into attending Cersei’s bachelorette party, he and his brother had been dragged to Euron’s bachelor party. He had planned on excusing himself for the night with the pretext of showing his girlfriend around King’s Landing, but with Brienne attending an event of her own, he had not been able to find any valid excuse.

 

Which had been a shame, because not only did he hate Euron’s stupid, smug face. (Especially since, really, there had never been any doubt about it: this was a marriage of convenience, money marrying money. Cersei’s taste had always been more refined than the likes of Euron Greyjoy).

 

Jaime had actually been looking forward to spending some time with Brienne.

At that moment in time, she was probably the only person in the city, besides Tyrion, whom he actually had something in common with. He would much rather be drinking a pint and catching a game with the two of them, than sitting in some sleazy dive bar among men he did not know, and did not particularly like.

He was also fairly certain that Brienne would much rather be anywhere else, too, and could not stop wondering how she was holding up.

He had never meant for her to be left alone with Cersei. As much as he had always loved his sister, Jaime was well aware of how possessive she could be of him. He remembered how, in ninth grade, this girl named Melara had gotten cast as the Jonquil to his Florian in the school play.

She had been pretty and, in true high school fashion, a rumour about them dating had spread like wildfire.

There had been no truth to it, of course. Jaime had always been Cersei’s, even back then.

But the rumour had been enough for Cersei to approach her and befriend her, before using any and all information she had gathered about Melara to bully her into transferring to another school. And, if a rumour had been enough, Jaime would not put it past her to reserve the same treatment for someone she believed Jaime had actually been dating.

Gods, he had enabled her for so long!

 

“I should never have asked her to come with me,” he had told Tyrion, as they people-watched, witnessing the party shenanigans unfold from the safety of their corner table. Brienne had been so kind to agree, and the only reason why this wedding weekend had been at all bearable so far. She always had been kind, and just so _good_. Jaime was not sure he could forgive himself if she were to get hurt because of him.

“You’re concerned for your girlfriend, it’s admirable. But, need I remind you? Our sweet sister would never cause a scene at her own wedding.”

Fair point.

“And I’m sure Brienne can fend for herself. After all, she’s stuck around you long enough.”

Another fair point, but Jaime had now just realised what Tyrion had said.

“Need I remind you,” he lowered his voice to a whisper, so that only Tyrion could hear him, “that she’s not actually my girlfriend? I’m just concerned for her, as a friend and employer. That’s all.”

Tyrion hummed, incredulously.

“She’s not! Brienne is…”

“ _Like a sister?”_ Tyrion quipped, deliberately making eye contact as he sipped on his ale.

Jaime put on his best, unamused scowl.

 

He had meant to say that Brienne was funny, and strong, and a good friend.

That they always had a good time training together, or hanging out after work.

That her eyes were so extremely blue, and pretty.

She was pretty, too. He had not seen it at first, but he wished he had.

She was so much taller than Cersei, and even taller than he was, but she carried herself with such grace while fencing that it almost seemed like she was dancing, her long, muscular arms extending in perfectly choreographed lines.

And her smile. She did not have perfect teeth, like Cersei. But when she smiled, it was so rare and sincere, that he almost felt lucky to witness it. It traveled from her lips (she had very plump lips, Jaime had noticed) all the way up to her eyes, a show of joy so raw and vulnerable.

That she had been the only other person to never show revulsion at the state of his hand, when even Cersei had abandoned him after it had been smashed through the dashboard of his car.

Where his own sister had flinched, Brienne had held him so gently.

 

And she was his friend.

 

“Jaime, take it from someone who has been unhappy for a while,” Tyrion sighed, self-deprecatingly, “You and Cersei have been making each other miserable for a very long time. Even before fiancé number three, here.”

As Tyrion nodded in his direction, Euron was now being goaded into doing a keg-stand. Not much goading had been needed to begin with.

 

“Cersei and I have always had our differences, you know that. But she’s my sister, and I can’t help but wish her happiness. Even if said happiness entails a bunch of rowdy Greyjoys at future family reunions.” He began, seriously, “This is her way of finding some semblance of normalcy, and I can’t fault her for that. Neither should you”.

 

Jaime pondered his brother’s words for a while. Perhaps he had not faulted Cersei, per se, but he had resented her.

Somehow, she had always seemed to be able to function without him, to carry on and be her own person, while Jaime had always looked up to her, and tried so hard to emulate her that he had never really been able to acknowledge those parts of his personality that had purely been his own. Not until she had cut ties with him for good, by which point he had felt too old and too jaded to start over again.

It had happened, but a part of him still mourned the time lost.

 

“You’re allowed to make your own happiness, too. I wasn’t lying when I said I’ve never seen you as happy as you are with Brienne.” Tyrion insisted.

Jaime had to admit, he was not entirely wrong. In the past few months, he truly had enjoyed their time working together. Planning this pretend relationship had only brought the two of them closer, and there had been times when Jaime had allowed himself to forget they were not truly an item.

Even so, Jaime was sure that Brienne would not reciprocate his potential feelings, if Tyrion were right about it. Their friendship had meant that Brienne had trusted him enough to travel and share a room with him, to put herself in uncomfortable situations for his sake. He would not betray her trust and voice sentiments that could put a strain on their relationship. She deserved more respect than that. She deserved better than him.

 

“Let’s get a refill,” Jaime changed the subject, getting up and leading the way to the bar.

It barely took five steps into the bachelor party hellscape, before a drunk, red haired man bumped into him, putting an arm around his shoulders and being way too friendly for Jaime’s liking.

“Hey! My man!” He exclaimed, a whiff of margarita making Jaime’s nose wrinkle. _Fantastic_.

“You’re taking one for the team!” he bellowed, causing both Jaime and Tyrion to look at him perplexedly.

“Wrong guy,” Jaime tried to wriggle himself free, sure he had never met the other man in his life.

“No, no! You’re the one dating Brienne!” he enthusiastically slapped Jaime’s chest, clearly not registering the contained fury on his face, “We went to high school together! Brienne the Beauty, we called her!”

Something in his tone told Jaime that it had not been a form of flattery, and a strange, burning feeling made itself known in his stomach. It could have easily been the beer but, paired with the thrumming in his ears, Jaime had to face the possibility that the pure, utter loathing he was feeling must have been a contributing factor.

“You really shouldn’t…” Jaime started, warningly.

“It is her, right? We had a bet with my mates that one of us could get her to go to prom with us. I knew she was ugly, but one look at that freak-“

 

That had been enough, and Jaime had warned him.

Before he knew it, he had put all of his weight behind his right uppercut, knowing it to be more effective than its non-dominant counterpart, and Jaime heard bones break under his shaking, aching fist.

 

There was a shout of “Fight!” and drunken “Woah’s!”, along with a worried call for a “Connington”, which Jaime supposed was the man’s name.

 

“Time to go,” Tyrion grabbed him by the elbow, just in time to avoid the brunt of his actions, but not before receiving a few blows himself. He followed without protest, his left hand attempting to massage the hurt away. He would regret that punch in the morning, but it had been worth it. _Slimy, nasty git._

 

So, there he was, hiding out with Tyrion in the sketchiest alley in King’s Landing, nursing a bloody nose of his own (although, thankfully, it was not broken), and absolutely fuming.

Tyrion had been right all along.

Maybe there had been something more than friendship to his feelings for Brienne.

Jaime could not pinpoint when it had happened, either. It had been a series of small details, barely significant. Dot after dot, they had finally started connecting and forming a complete picture. It had always been there, but Jaime was just now seeing it.

He stared at his phone, resigning himself to asking Tyrion to dial the number (his hand was still badly twitching), before trapping the device between his ear and shoulder.

 

It wasn’t too long before she picked up, distant music in the background.

 

“Brienne?” he instinctively held his breath, the newfound awareness of his feelings weighing on their interaction, “Now, don’t be mad…” he started, hesitantly, recounting the events of the party, careful to omit Connington’s insults. He would find a way to warn her about his presence once he saw her, but he would not stir up bad memories, if he could help it. If he and the drinks had to take the blame for it, so be it.

 

When they hung up (Brienne had offered to pick them up as soon as possible), Tyrion was staring at him.

 

“Oh, spare me that look.” Jaime muttered, looking down between his knees.

“You’re out here, fighting for her honour like some sort of punching vigilante. I think it’s time you tell her how you feel”.

 

Yet again, Jaime had to recognise his brother was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As for the final chapters, I might have to drop the last two together in a couple weeks as I'll be traveling. Fear not, they will be there, they might just be there all at once!


	6. The Role of a Lifetime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes! Life has been rough and I haven't seen my laptop since Thursday, sorry about that! I'll return to the usual schedule on Sunday!
> 
> As always, I read and appreciate all of the wonderful comments and kudos, thank you Braime Fam <3

When Brienne was six years old, she had accidentally broken the kitchen window.

She had been playing baseball with the neighbour’s boys and, maybe because of her enthusiasm, maybe because of the lack of awareness of her own strength, her bat had somehow made its way out of her hand, and straight through the glass.

Everyone else had scattered in a hurry, yet she had just stood there, taking responsibility and a good scolding from her father.

 

Point was, Brienne had never been a good liar, even back then. Fibs and stories had never been in her nature.

 

Yet, she had stepped into the role of a lifetime, lying over and over for Jaime’s sake, while half-heartedly sipping on some of the sweetest tiki cocktails that she had ever tasted, sitting on wicker furniture at a bachelorette party that no one had told her would be taking place poolside.

She would definitely have to pace herself, too.

She could not allow her mask to slip due to alcohol intake; she would not do that to Jaime.

She would play her part, and answer every question the way they had rehearsed it at the bar.

It would not have to be too hard, really.

All Brienne had to do, was allow herself to go to that hidden place in her thoughts, the one where she would sometimes allow herself to forget that she and Jaime had a pre-established expiration date.

The part that liked to fantasise about their fictitious first meeting, where Jaime had walked up to her at the bar, and offered her a drink. Where they had talked the night away on the dimly lit patio, and had not left until someone had shouted, “last call”.

The scenario in which Jaime had actually taken notice of her, smiled that smile that made tiny wrinkles appear at the corner of his eyes, and asked to see her again.

 

She would do that, recount the beginning of their made up romance, and ignore the longing gnawing at her insides whenever she would have to remind herself of reality.

She would put on the tightest smile, and focus on the pretty lie.

There was no conceivable world in which Jaime Lannister could have possibly thought of her as anything more than a friend, yet Brienne could not help but feel the sharp pang of hope every time she mentioned dates that never happened, and never would.

No matter how many frilly dresses or how much makeup Sansa and Tyrion had convinced her to wear, Brienne was very aware of how mismatched she and Jaime would be.

 

And, out of place due to her lack of a swimsuit or a friendly face to cling to for support, Brienne had found herself completely vulnerable to a painful stream of questions.

There really was no way around it: Brienne had it bad for Jaime Lannister.

She had tried to blame the tingling sensation in her belly on a temporary infatuation, brought on by his impossibly green eyes, frustratingly chiseled jaw and absolutely maddening charm.

But, the more time they spent together, the more Brienne realised it had been the softness of his gaze that she had found herself thinking about, rather than just the objective beauty of his eyes.

The way he would say her name, almost gently, more kindly than anyone had spoken it before.

Or the way he would hold her hand, soothingly and reassuringly, so in tune with her insecurities and anxieties.

 

Yet, it had all been an act. All of it.

 

There could never be any confusion about it and, should Brienne forget, all she would have to do was look at Cersei.

Brienne had not allowed herself to wallow in self-commiseration for a very long time. Yet, looking at Cersei, with her petite frame and delicate features, Brienne could not help but be painfully aware of how they stood at two opposite ends of a spectrum.

There was no doubt as to which side Jaime had chosen.

 

Not that Brienne could or would blame him for it. If anything, she had been blaming herself for allowing feelings to develop, when she should have known better.

 

“Excuse me,” she heard herself muttering, in response to a much more inappropriate question about her and Jaime’s relationship.

If nothing else, Brienne would _not_ stop and think about the more _intimate_ details of dating Jaime Lannister.

The image alone, however quickly she had pushed it out of her mind, had been enough to cause her to blush so furiously that her cheeks were now matching the crimson blooms of the lei she had been given earlier that evening.

 

She bee-lined for the bathrooms, hoping to splash away any remnant of the flush on her face and neck, only for her attention to be caught by a fragment of a nearby conversation.

 

“…That dress! You should have seen it!” someone was whispering, behind the anonymous safety of the hedges. There was a cascading choir of giggles.

“Not that she could do much to improve on her situation, even the best stylist can’t perform miracles,” another voice chimed in, “not telling her to wear a swimsuit was an act of mercy, really”.

 

If Brienne were to pin-point the last time she had felt this kind of lump in her throat, she would probably have to go back to high school, when the boys in her year took turns asking her out in order to mock her. She had forced herself to forget, but this kind of sting had been all too familiar.

 

She steadied herself, leaning her back against the nearest wall and inhaling deeply, trying to plan a swift escape to her room.

 

She thought she had almost made it, too, until she reached the lobby.

 

“Brienne,” Cersei had followed, and her call had been close to a whisper, polite yet firm.

“I’m glad I caught you alone. We can stop pretending now.”

Just as Cersei had been sweet, way too sweet, under the public eye, she was now so incredibly icy and calculating, each and every word deliberately trying to reel Brienne in and let her make the first fumble.

“I’m not sure I understand…” she started, probably acting way too confused, probably blushing just a little too obviously.

She _must_ have known.

“See, at first, when my brother told me about you, I thought for sure he must have found some gold-digger, some pretty young thing using her assets for a cut of the Lannister legacy, given Jaime’s current state. Then I met you, and this is _clearly_ not the case…” Cersei’s hands were clasped in the most collected manner, her voice steady and cruel as she trailed off.

“I thought he might still be offering you some sort of payment. He knows how to push my buttons, and I wouldn’t put it past him to do so. After all, what better way to ruin my wedding day, than to show up with a date who is my exact opposite on every aspect? It would be brilliant, really, and you’d still be using your assets for a profit. But you don’t have it in you to take advantage of someone. Not like that.”

The way she said it, Brienne thought she had wanted to insult her. Yet, the way she had been trying to paint Jaime had been the most bothersome to her. She could not tell whether because it had seemed like a gross misrepresentation of the man she had come to know, or if it had been doubt gnawing at her, telling her that no matter what, Cersei would always know him best and, deep down, she might have been right.

“So, I can only come to one conclusion. You’re in love with Jaime.”

Brienne stiffened, as if she had just been slapped.

Now more than ever, even when faced with an uncomfortable truth, she must have to act her part.

“Of course, we’ve been dating for a year now-” she had started, a little more mumbling and hesitant than she would have liked, but Cersei was not swayed.

“Please. I know he’s only pretending. Question is: do you?”

All Brienne could do was hold her gaze, before watching her walk away.

It was as if every last molecule of her being had started imploding and crumbling, freezing her to the spot, unable to speak (or breathe, for that matter).

She seemed to have lost all awareness of time passing, until she felt her pocket vibrating and blasting the loudest trumpet solo she had ever heard.

Jaime had taken to changing his ringtone on her phone from time to time, allegedly to cheer her up. She hated to admit that it had usually worked, too.

 

“Hello?”

“Brienne? Now, don’t be mad…”

She listened to the story of his bar fight in a daze, partially brought on by the tiki cocktails, partially by her conversation with Cersei, and partially by the sheer shock that Jaime would start punching other guests.

“Stay where you are. I’ll call a taxi.” She sighed, trying to swallow the heavy lump in her throat and hide away any remnants of her hurt before meeting up with him and Tyrion.

 

* * *

 

 

The moment she had walked out of the cab, Jaime had stood up (almost jumped) from the curb he had been sitting on.

As battered as he was, he still seemed to be alright, at least.

Nevertheless, Brienne found herself checking on him, gently placing her hands on his jaw and assessing the damage, from bloody nose to bruised knuckles.

 

“What were you thinking?” she muttered, in a worried whisper, more to herself than him.

“Brienne. I’m fine.” He placed a hand over hers, effectively holding it still. She could not say why Jaime was looking at her the way he was, pupils wide and a hint of wonder but, whatever his reasons, Brienne would not find out, as Tyrion had just reminded them of his presence by loudly clearing his throat.

 

“Yes, Jaime. What were you thinking?” he pressed.

 

“I didn’t like what he had to say.’ Jaime gritted, and Brienne was sure that the brothers were hiding some kind of detail from her.

Given the situation, it would probably be better to hold any further questions until the next morning, and get them both back to the cab.

 

* * *

 

 

“Jaime” Brienne had called, before she could stop herself, once they had gotten back to the room.

He had been lying down on the bed and staring at the ceiling for quite some time, now, but propped himself up on his elbows as soon as Brienne had joined him, sitting at the bottom corner of the mattress.

“Can I ask you a question?”

He seemed thoughtful for a moment, but nodded.

“Why Cersei?”

The moment the words had left her mouth, she had regretted them. It had been too bold of her to ask, and inappropriate, too.

Obviously, Jaime had loved her, and always would. They had literally known each other from birth, and would always know each other better than she could ever hope to get to know him.

In spite of the cruel side she had shown her tonight, Cersei must have enough redeeming qualities for someone like Jaime to fall in love with her.

Yet, after a pause, Jaime exhaled.

 

“You must think I’m hateful.”

 

It seemed more of a confession on his part, a regret rather than an accusation.

Yet Brienne could not find it in her to agree with him.

Even upon first meeting him, when he had definitely rubbed her the wrong way and she had found him the most annoying, Brienne had not found him hateful.

She did not think she ever could.

 

“We have known everything about each other since I can remember. We were so similar, people couldn’t even tell us apart. Yet, somehow, she was always a better version of myself, someone I could look up to. And, when our mother died, she was the only other person who could remember her, which made our bond even stronger. I don’t even know how it started, but it just seemed like the natural progression of our relationship, as absurd as that sounds…” He shook his head, bitterly, before laying back down.

“Obviously, I was wrong in thinking we’d always know each other better than anyone else, but I was always the stupidest Lannister, after all.”

His sad smile gave Brienne the impression that those had been Cersei’s words rather than his own, and she lied down next to him, taking his hand into her own.

 

“You’re not. And I don’t think she’s better than you, either.” Brienne admitted, trying so very hard not to cross any more lines than she already had.

Jaime did not seem convinced, but did not let go of her hand, either.

“Did you at least have a good time before I called? Did she say anything to you?” he asked and, for a moment, Brienne could have sworn he had seemed concerned.

“Nothing I haven’t heard before,” she decided to downplay it, not wanting to cause any more trouble or have to admit any unrequited feelings.

Hesitantly and unexpectedly, Jaime pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her apologetically, making room for her head to rest in the crook of his neck.


	7. If It Were Real

In the almost four decades of his life, Jaime had never fallen in love.

That was not to say he had never been in love with Cersei, no.

But when it came down to the proverbial butterflies or the getting-to-know-you aspects of budding relationships, Jaime had never had any first hand experience.

 

However, he had a feeling that his unwillingness to get out of bed on the morning of his sister’s wedding, content to just lay there with a sleeping Brienne in his arms, could be considered part of that experience.

 

He did not know which particular brand of bravery had possessed him the previous night, but he had wanted nothing more than to make up for the hurt, which she stubbornly insisted on hiding.

So he had held her, stroking her hair until they had both fallen asleep.

 

He would tell her.

 

He would let her sleep a little longer, enjoy a few more moments of her soft, warm breath against his chest, and he would tell her over breakfast.

He would gather up the same courage that had guided his fist to Connington’s jaw, the same courage that had pushed him to hold her hand and hold her close, and he would let her know that he could not let this be pretense anymore. That he wanted to wake up next to her the following morning, and the one after that, for as long as she would allow him.

 

The chance of rejection was terrifying, yet Jaime had never felt so electrified in his life.

 

There was a knock at the door, and Brienne stirred, mumbling something in her sleep.

Careful not to wake her, Jaime got to his feet, and found one of the porters waiting outside their room.

 

“Mister Lannister?”

 

He nodded, holding a finger to his lips and motioning towards Brienne as he delicately closed the door behind him.

 

“Your sister wants to see you. She says it’s urgent.”

 

Jaime sighed.

He should have known this was coming.

He had, after all, just punched another guest and, judging by the dull ache at his nose and orbit, he was about to show up to the ceremony sporting a serious black eye.

 

He followed the man to Cersei’s suite, after quickly changing into something other than his pajama bottoms, ready for a scalding.

He made sure to leave Brienne a note, too, letting her know he would be back soon.

 

Yet, he was greeted by tears and worry, a flurry of “What happened?” and “Let me look at you”.

Through her sobs, Cersei still looked beautiful, in spite of the wet streaks on her cheeks and reddened eyelids.

Somehow, Jaime was not as moved as he knew he should be.

 

“Your husband will tell you the story, I’m sure. Don’t worry about it for now,” he shrugged, somehow holding her at arms distance whilst still trying to be sympathetic. “What happened?”

 

“I can’t go through with this. I can’t.”

 

And with that, she had clutched him close, her arms clinging to his back, fingers digging into his shoulder blades almost painfully. This was all too familiar, Jaime realised. Cersei had held him like this when he had come back fro his travels to Dorne, whenever he had visited while Robert was away, when they had last seen each other before his accident.

She had held him this tight when they had their first pregnancy scare, when their father had died, when Jaime had moved back to the Westerlands.

The familiarity of it was agonising, and all Jaime could do for a while was take in her scent, and allow her to cry.

 

“Let’s go away. Together.”

 

She was almost pleading, and Jaime knew he was supposed to feel _something_ , some kind of tug towards her, some kind of longing. But he felt so distant, so hollowly removed.

 

“Cersei, I can’t,” he heard himself saying, his own voice almost disembodied.

 

“Please, Jaime. I love you. I’ve always loved you. Didn’t we always say, we’d always be together? If people talk, we’ll let them.” her hands were now caressing his face, roughly, desperately, and soon her lips were on his, frenetically planting kiss after kiss.

 

“Stop.”

 

Had Cersei come back to him a year, or a month ago Jaime would have probably caved.

He had wanted nothing more for close to twenty years.

Yet now, now that she was in his arm and begging him to run away with her, all Jaime could feel was a dull sort of rumbling rage, the kind that came with the sudden awareness of their dynamic of dependence.

What Cersei must have convinced herself was a romantic declaration, Jaime could only see as pure, utter terror of relinquishing control.

 

“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t love you the way you want me to.”

_Not now, not after all the hurt and rejection and secrets._

He could not allow himself to be her second choice, her shameful tryst, like he had in the past.

“I will be there for your wedding, as I promised, if you decide to go through with it. And you should, and I wish you happiness. And I will be there as your brother, if you want me to be. But I can’t offer you more than that,” for the first time, he felt lucid around Cersei. His words felt right, and his own, “It’s over.”

It had been a statement and an admission, a way to set them both free. He had not dared speak it aloud, not ever, but he knew it to be the truth. It was over.

 

Where there had been pleading in his sister’s gaze, there was now venom.

 

“Is it because of that… Is it because of that woman?”

 

She had collected herself just enough to let her quiet fury seep through and, while Jaime could relate (had he not, after all, felt the same way about her companions?), he felt a burn bubbling up in his stomach.

 

“As a matter of fact, yes. It is. Now, if you’ll excuse me, you need to get ready, and so do I.”

 

He nodded his farewell, briskly leaving the room.

Brienne had been exactly the reason why Jaime had been able to see his own value, to be honest with himself. The revelation could have made him leap on each step for the happiness and freedom of it all, even through the wild pulsing in his chest sharp thrumming at his temples.

 

He would make sure to tell Brienne that, too.

 

He would let her know just how much he appreciated the encouragement and recognition from someone as kind and honest as she was.

 

He would order champagne with their breakfast, and reveal his feelings in the privacy of their room.

 

Of course, by the time Jaime got back, heart pounding half in shock, half in in utter joy and liberation, privacy was nowhere to be found.

 

Turned out, Brienne had woken up, and was sharing omelets and Bellinis with Tyrion.

 

“Oh, there you are!” his brother greeted him brightly, pulling up a chair for Jaime to join them. “Eat, we’ll need to be on our way soon. Brienne needs to get ready.”

 

Reluctantly, Jaime obliged, chewing slowly and side-eyeing Tyrion.

 

“I was hoping Brienne and I could have a few moments to talk. Alone.”

Brienne perked up for a moment, a hint of curiosity in her eyes.

 

“And you will, after the wedding. Right now, since you two seem to have forgotten any notion of time,” Jaime had not missed the brief smirk on his brother’s lips, “we are running late and we need to start dressing up.”

Tyrion insisted, in that pragmatic tone of his that left no room for objections.

Brienne shrugged apologetically, before turning her gaze downwards again, blushing ever so slightly, but looking mighty uncomfortable, certainly because of Tyrion’s implications.

Suddenly, Jaime’s plan to confess his feelings did not seem like such a great idea, after all.

 

* * *

 

 

“Tyrion, you know the conversation we had last night? About the feelings?” Jaime exclaimed, making sure his brother could hear him from the bathroom as he got into a tuxedo of his own.

They had previously agreed on changing in his room, to allow Brienne some privacy as she got ready.

 

“Your feelings for Brienne, which you won’t admit to?” Tyrion quipped.

 

“I was about to!” he protested, effectively getting a reaction out of his brother, who had now poked his head out of the bathroom door, beard half trimmed and shaving cream on one cheek.

 

“Oh?” he raised an eyebrow, dubiously. His reaction was not really surprising, after all Jaime had never really shown interest in the dating scene, let alone actually developed feelings for someone besides Cersei. Furthermore, he had stubbornly avoided admitting the situation to himself for weeks, months perhaps.

He nodded, exasperated.

“I was planning on ordering breakfast, something a little fancier than our usual coffees. A little bit more special. Champagne? Maybe some flowers, too?” He was rambling by this point, progressively realising just how much he would have been improvising. “And I was certainly not planning on my brother to be there, too!” He added, quickly, projecting his irritation with himself onto Tyrion, who was now shaking his head wearily as he wiped the shaving cream off with a towel.

“So, your plan was offering her drinks in the bedroom you share, on the day of your ex’s wedding. She definitely could not misinterpret your intentions.” He commented, sarcastically.

Having never done something like this before, Jaime felt lost.

Perhaps his original strategy had been inadvertently too forward, and riddled with the possibility of misunderstandings.

 

“How would you do this, then?” he asked, genuinely.

 

If he were going to do this right, he would need all the help he could get.

 

* * *

 

 

 

When they met outside the event hall, Jaime caught himself pausing, his mouth ever so slightly open.

 

“You look wonderful.” His words were almost a gasp, and he knew he must have been staring for just a little too long.

Just like the first time they had met after work, she was wearing blue. Only, this time, it was a shade that closely resembled the ocean, and it came in the form of a dress, flowing and silky and so long it somehow made her look even taller.

He found himself captivated by her eyes, yet again, and all he could do was smile softly, entirely entranced.

“Oh-!” She seemed sincerely surprised by his comment, rolling her shoulders back and standing a little straighter, a little more alert.

“Sansa picked this dress out for me, and we had it tailored, so it fits a little bit better…” she started, as if to give a logical explanation as to why Jaime might have thought a compliment was in order.

“It suits you.”

She seemed to be gauging his sincerity for a moment, before deciding to trust his words.

“Thank you… and you-”

“Look like someone who was in a bar fight last night?” Jaime joked, knowing it would warrant Brienne’s unamused look. But it never came.

“No! I was going to say you look good!” she corrected him, hastily, a little bit louder than necessary, “You look good, too.” She repeated, this time softly, and followed by a freckly blush and an awkward shuffle of her feet.

Jaime smiled, so endeared by her reaction.

Maybe he should just get out with it and ask her out there and then. But he had a plan, and he should stick to it.

 

“Are you ready?” she asked, changing the subject, and forcing him to face the reality of his choice. He had chosen to free Cersei, and himself in the process. He had chosen Brienne, and he had chosen happiness.

He nodded, heavily, before taking her arm and leading her inside.

 

* * *

 

 

The ceremony ran relatively smoothly.

There was whooping, and cheering, and crying.

The bride looked as close to flawlessness as a human being possibly could, even her own tears seemed perfectly placed by an artist.

Yet, Jaime knew how they were truly brought on and, for the tiniest fraction of a moment, he allowed himself to feel guilty for it. As much he had longed to be with Cersei or finally free, he knew how finality must feel for her, too.

There were the customary round of congratulations at dinner, the customary toast, and the obligatory introductions between the newly joined families.

And there was the absolute, all-encompassing euphoria that Jaime felt at the prospect of what he was finally about to do.

As the band started playing, and the newlyweds joined the floor for their first dance, he took Brienne’s hand and led her to the patio, where he knew they could finally get some privacy.

 

“Let me buy you a drink.” He blurted, feigning more confidence than he possessed.

“Jaime, this is an open bar…” she started protesting, as they approached the counter.

“Just… Go along with this. Trust me.” He reassured her, pulling out a barstool for her, and gesturing towards it.

She seemed pretty hesitant, but obliged as he ordered some wine for the both of them (rosé, just what Brienne liked), and sat right besides her.

“So, how are you liking King’s Landing so far?” He asked, trying so hard to make small conversation, instead of blurting out his true intentions too quickly.

When they had discussed the details of their fictitious first date, small talk over drinks had been the very beginning of a relationship. So, Jaime had decided to recreate just that, following a script that closely resembled the novels he knew Brienne loved to read and get lost in.

She had almost started answering, too, when she quickly closed her mouth, lightly frowned, and observed him for a few seconds.

“Jaime. What are you doing?” She asked, warily, almost scared. Given what he had recently found out about her past. Jaime could not blame her for putting up a wall.

“Remember what we talked about at the bar?”

She nodded, almost imperceptibly, suddenly very stiff yet intrigued.

“Well, I thought we should do that. Have a drink. Discuss some things.”

The inside of his mouth felt suddenly parched, and he gulped down his wine in one go, trying to muster up some courage.

A faint hint of music could be heard from inside, amongst the chattering of the guests, and Jaime had a sudden idea.

“We should dance. Here,” he offered her his hand, helping her up from the stool and taking a few steps away from the bar.

Hesitantly, she followed and, just as hesitantly, he wrapped an arm around her waist, making sure she felt comfortable with the contact before pulling her in closer, gently swaying to the distant notes of a slow dance.

Bathed in the soft glow of the string lights, Jaime could swear he had never felt his heart beat so fast.

 

“You really do look lovely tonight.” He whispered, so busy taking in every last detail, from the way her hands were gently brushing his shoulders, to the subtle way she was nervously biting her bottom lip.

  
“Don’t.”

 

Jaime paused for a moment, eyes wide and suddenly terrified. Maybe he had been wrong.

Maybe Brienne had truly not reciprocated his feelings.

After all, she almost seemed hurt by his words, rather than flattered.

“You don’t have to say… You don’t have to pretend while we’re alone.” She clarified, and Jaime felt a sudden lump at his throat.

“I’m not. I mean it.” Gods, how could she not see it, when all Jaime had been able to do had been staring into those astonishingly blue eyes of hers?

He would have to make sure to remind her from now on. Even when the reminder was met by her look of disbelief, and until she could finally believe it herself.

He let go of her hand, now letting his fingers wander up to gently brush a strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb gently lingering on her cheek and stroking soft circles.

Brienne’s lips parted in quiet surprise, and Jaime could have sworn her eyes had darted down to glance at his own lips, instinctually and involuntarily.

That alone could have driven him mad with anticipation.

 

“That night,” Jaime began, swallowing hard as he tried to get the words out, “When you said you would want any potential kiss to be real…” he could feel himself fumbling over his own words, but he could not care. All that mattered was Brienne, and the way her pupils had widened as he spoke, a mirror of his own wonder.

“Did you mean-- Would it be okay… If it _were_ real?”

“If it were real.” She whispered, in confirmation, so hopeful, and timid, and yet so assertive as well.

He found himself shifting his balance to the tip of his toes, giving in to the tension that had build up between them since the very first time they met.

Then Jaime was finally kissing her, so desperately and hungrily that he could scarcely believe he could ever have waited this long.

Her lips parted with a small, surprised gasp; so sweet and dizzying that Jaime felt himself leaning into her more and more as her hands made their way to his jaw, cupping his face gently, yet firmly creating even more contact as Brienne kissed him back, the same longing guiding her.


	8. To board or not to board?

“Flight Number WF804 to Winterfell is now boarding,” an artificial voice called, echoing through the antiseptic-looking expanse of King’s Landing Airport, and amplifying the tightening feeling in Brienne’s chest.

Within the next few minutes, she would have to make a decision.

 

_To board or not to board?_

Just that morning, she had felt the lightest she had in ages.

Last night, Jaime had kissed her, with all the longing of months spent in inaction, wondering if the other felt the same and with the absolute belief they could not possibly.

At first, Brienne had been confused.

Surely, Jaime had not meant to… to _woo_ her in any sort of way.

He must have felt the need to be nice out of gratitude for her friendly gesture. He must have.

Brienne supposed that, subconsciously, there might have been an element of pity, too. Surely.

But then, he had started playing out their fake first date, effectively making it a reality, and the little hopeful rumble at the pit of her stomach had yet again made itself known, even over the blaring caution alarms going off in her head.

When he had asked her to dance, she had shivered at the contact, fear of disappointment and anticipation mingling so deliciously and leaving behind a tingle wherever Jaime’s flesh met her own, something she had not felt in a very long time, if ever.

It had not been a pity dance, either.

Not like that time fellow high school senior and soon-to-be first college crush Renly had spun her around during her only dance of prom, as to make her feel less alone and prevent further teasing.

No.

Jaime had made sure they were alone; this was for their benefit and their benefit only. He had _wanted_ to dance with her. He had been sincere.

Even through her questioning, he had shown over and over just what his true feelings were.

Then he had kissed her, and every doubt left Brienne’s mind.

Underneath all the eagerness and urgency, Jaime was gentle, and Brienne could have sworn she had felt her knees buckle at the first taste of his lips, and over and over again as his left hand had found the nape of her neck, his palm so firm as he pulled her close and his fingers softly tangling in her hair.

Then his lips parted, and Brienne could not tell whose moan had escaped who first, but she could taste the sweet wine on his tongue and feel him smiling against her mouth and, _Gods!_ , she knew she could keep on kissing him forever.

Every time they parted, forehead against forehead and all grins, it was not to long before one of them would lean in again, now peppering in little pecks and much more chaste kisses, relishing in this new truth between them.

The music kept playing, underscored by the soft rustling of the magnolia leaves in the breeze, yet Brienne found herself blocking it all out, entirely caught in this Jaime-induced daze. Even as they finally pulled away, the only sound she could focus on was Jaime’s heartbeat, so close to hers. The only sight she could see was Jaime’s goofy grin, the one he had flashed in her direction so many times before, the one that had her falling for him a little bit more every day.

“Well…” he started, a small rasp in his voice and a nervous chuckle escaping his lips, “What do you say I take you on a real date? You know, away from all this madness.” He proposed, and all that Brienne could muster up was a nod and a flustered “I’d like that”.

“Good, because I called us a cab about fifteen minutes ago, and I’m pretty sure the meter is still running, so…” he joked, laughing at Brienne’s fake outraged expression.

“Jaime Lannister!” she exclaimed, playfully reproaching him, “Were you that sure I’d say yes?”

Not that there had been a doubt in her mind that she would, not ever.

“To tell you the truth, I was terrified you wouldn’t.”

Where Jaime had chuckled before, there was now complete, vulnerable honesty.

As much as her instinct and experience so far told her nobody could possibly feel this way about her, nobody could actually like her enough to be nervous at the prospect of her rejection, Brienne had trusted Jaime so far and, as hard as opening up would be, she would have to trust his sincerity again.

There was a sort of youthful giddiness in the way Jaime led her out, sneaking past other guests and hotel personnel, holding her hand and occasionally hiding behind the hedges to make their exit smoother and unnoticed (although Brienne suspected not very many potential witnesses had been lingering about the gardens at night, and most of their detours had been an excuse to make up for lost time and steal a few more kisses. Not that Brienne was complaining).

 

For the first time, she felt so carefree, even girlish, and her grin threatened to never leave her face. Not as they strolled down the cobblestone pathway that led to the streets of Aegon’s High Hill, not as their cab sped through the winding alleys of the capital, and definitely not as they reached their destination.

 

“Now, this isn’t as fancy a first date I had hoped to take you on, but I thought a little peace and quiet…” he started, gesturing towards the blankets he had laid out on the grass patch that overlooked an archeological site famously nicknamed _The Dragonpit_.

In the dim glow of the park’s lights, she could make out a picnic basket and a few pillows, too.

Fancy or not, it did not matter to Brienne. This had been one of the most thoughtful things anyone had ever done for her.

Away from prying eyes, they could finally fall back into their usual dynamic, laughing and bantering for hours, lying close to each other as they looked up at the stars.

“You know, sometimes I would forget that we were only pretending.” Jaime confessed, his voice almost a whisper as he turned to face her, looking at her with so much tenderness that Brienne was left speechless for a few moments, only able to nod, her eyes shiny.

“Maybe we never were. Not really.” She agreed, her voice softly quivering at the admission. She had not dared voice that thought herself, let alone hope that he had felt the same for the weeks leading up to their trip.

 

But Jaime was there, warm and real as he held her close to his chest.

 

It was not until two in the morning that they got back to the hotel, tiptoeing through the halls and corridors until they finally reached their destination.

 

“Alright. I’ll be going.” Jaime said, after awkwardly lingering in front of the door of their room for a few minutes. Brienne blinked, confused.

“Going where?” she asked, smiling nervously.

“Tyrion’s, probably? I just thought –“

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous! We’ve shared a room before!” she protested, finding his sudden embarrassment a bit superfluous, although pretty charming and sweet.

“But it’s different… Brienne, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” He started, clearly flustered, and now it was her turn to blush.

“We won’t.” she agreed, a little bit more hurriedly than she meant to.

“I’m willing to wait until you’re ready –“ he added, but she cut him off.

“Same to you.”

“Good!” Jaime exclaimed, seemingly unable to look at her.

Not that Brienne would have known that, given how determined to stare at the carpeted floor she had been.

“Good.” She agreed, nodding vehemently, before looking up at him.

 

They fell silent for the briefest instant but, the moment their eyes met again, all of their best intensions were forgotten as their lips clashed once more, and Brienne’s back collided with the door as her hands frantically fumbled with the lock.

 

* * *

 

 

Brienne woke to a soft, distant buzzing.

 

At first, she had thought she had been dreaming, so she had nuzzled closer to Jaime, determined to enjoy a few more moments of sleep and tranquility in the safety of his arms.

 

The second time, she figured Jaime had been snoring again, and twisted herself in the sheets a little more snugly.

 

But, as a quiet pinging sound reached her ears, along with the buzzing, Brienne had to finally admit defeat and sit up, reality slowly setting in. She was truly waking up in Jaime’s arms. It had all been real all along. Even through the morning grogginess, Brienne could not help but smile.

 

On her bedside table, her phone screen was flashing furiously, and she could already see she had missed at least five calls from Sansa.

That in itself would not be all that strange, her best friend would contact her on an almost-daily base, and the number of calls had about tripled since they had started planning the trip to King’s Landing.

But, paired with texts from an unknown number and news notifications, Brienne could only assume there had been some sort of an emergency.

 

She made her way to the bathroom as quietly as she could, stealthily slipping through Jaime’s arms, and opted to look at the messages first.

And it was then that everything started to crumble around her.

 

The pictures were blurry, sure, but there was no mistaking the Lannister twins, nor the interior of the Red Keep. Jaime had kissed Cersei on the day of her wedding, and Brienne held the literal, photographic evidence of it.

The same pictures could be found, Brienne would soon find out, on the various news articles she had received notifications for, accompanied by headlines that spelled the words “scandal” and “incest” in capital letters.

She would have tried to rationalise it, too, if the sender of the messages had not also attached a small video clip, no longer than a few seconds, in which she could clearly make out Jaime, and Tyrion, and… was that the groom in the background? The video must have been taken at the bachelor’s party.

 

“I should never have asked her to come with me,” she could hear Jaime say, and that had been the heaviest, final blow.

 

Years and years of taunting and rejection should have taught her never to hope for anything better, or different, yet Brienne found herself unable to recall how she had gotten herself quietly packed and out of the room, or how she had reached the hotel lobby.

She could not remember any steps she had taken, or if she had looked back before leaving.

She only knew she would have to get away before the urge to sob and collapse would get the best of her.

 

“Brienne!” she heard Jaime call after her, but she could not turn back. All she could do was march away, gripping the handle of her suitcase as tight as she could.

“ _Brienne_!” he repeated, more and more distant and, as she got into a cab, she finally saw him trying to catch up with her, clearly hurt and confused, until his chase was blocked by an extremely angry-looking Euron Greyjoy.

However that confrontation would end, Brienne would probably never know, because the cab left the driveway, and the tears finally came.

 

A few hours later, Brienne found herself holding a last-minute ticket to Winterfell, and sitting dejectedly in the most depressing airport waiting area.

 

“Flight Number WF804 to Winterfell is now boarding. This is the last call for Flight WF804 to Winterfell,” the speakers crackled again.

 

As she got up, a calm voice finally reached her.

 

“Brienne, please don’t leave.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my poor innocent mum, who's been beta reading this story and has been blushing through all of the kissing scenes.  
> And of course, to you guys, who've been so kind to comment and leave kudos!
> 
> Until next week, when we'll finally come to a close!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for sticking with this story so far!
> 
> I'll be trying to publish weekly on Sundays, I have about 8 chapters planned for now, but I'll add it to the notes should anything change! 
> 
> Until next week!


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